Shadows and Surety
by V. Laike
Summary: Light would be good right now. Light to see that Dean was Dean. Post Scarecrow.


Author's Notes: This is just a little something to see if Musey and the Winchester Boys can play nice, or work productively together, or whatever. Dean rather likes the idea of "whatever" with Musey. I have sent both Dean and Musey to take cold showers. Separately.

Interestingly, this ditty was actually inspired by a scene (I think you'll figure out which one) in AVSC. Go figure.

Muchas, _muchas_ thanks to Izhilzha, my wonderful, supportive enabler . . . erm . . . beta. It's all her fault, really.

Disclaimer: Obviously, The Boys aren't mine. They are the property of Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises Scrap Metal and Entertainment, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Warner Brothers, CW, and anyone else in the parade of logos or who can provide legal documentation of ownership. No money made, etc., etc.

* * *

SHADOWS and SURETY

by

V. Laike

The cool, crisp air left a pleasant tingle on his cheeks. Though the sky was overcast, the sun filtered through the clouds, giving the day a silver-gray brightness. Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he walked through the apple orchard. Sam Winchester knew he should be enjoying the stroll, but he was late for . . . something . . .

The sweet perfume of ripe fruit filled his nose, and he stopped under one of the trees. The apples were so red, so fresh; he could not help but reach out and pluck one from a low-hanging branch. After the fruit snapped from its stem, Sam paused, waiting with apprehension, expecting the tree to come to life and smack his hand and snatch back its prize, like the trees in the Enchanted Forest of Oz. Nothing happened, and Sam chuckled at his own foolishness. He held the apple to his nose and inhaled deeply before sinking his teeth into the firm, juicy flesh of the fruit. The apple crunched deliciously, and he had to wipe juice from his chin with the back of his hand. He savored the tang on his tongue and chewed appreciatively. These would be great in pie, he thought suddenly. Dean would kill for a piece of pie this good . . .

Dean . . .

Sam and his brother had argued and gone their separate ways weeks ago, months ago. But for some reason, Sam had felt the need to track Dean down. He'd followed Dean's trail to Burkitsville, Indiana, a sleepy little town, as homespun Americana as apple pie . . .

And Sam was late. Late getting to Dean. He hoped he wasn't too late.

Sam looked at the apple he was holding. Only moments before, it had been blemish-free, perfect. Now a worm was wriggling its way out of the bruised, pithy flesh.

Sam dropped the apple as if it had bitten him. Worry replaced the tranquility he'd felt moments ago. Where was Dean? Had Sam missed him? Had his brother moved on? Given up this hunt and moved on to the next? No. Definitely not. Dean never left a job unfinished. So where was he?

A stiff breeze kicked up, and the leaves covering the ground began to dance around Sam's ankles. He looked around, searching for a sign as to where his brother might be. On the far side of the orchard, just beyond the tree line, Sam saw a farmhouse. Dean must have gone there to talk to the owners. This must be their orchard. They've got to know something about . . . What, exactly? Sam would ask Dean when he found him.

Sam started walking between the rows of trees toward the house, but the more he walked, the farther away the house seemed to be. He quickened his pace, but the rows of trees only stretched, telescoped, pushing the house farther away the harder he tried to reach it. He broke into a run and began calling his brother's name. Nothing. No sign of Dean.

Sam came to an open patch amongst the trees. There, mounted high on a cross brace, hung the ugliest scarecrow Sam had ever seen. Vacant black holes cut into a canvas mask gaped down at him. Or was that skin? A shabby black hat sat atop long, scraggly gray hair, and the scarecrow wore dark, tattered rags. Arms tied to the cross brace, the disgusting thing held a sickle in its right hand.

Sam curled his lip in revulsion. "You are one ugly son of a bitch," he muttered.

The scarecrow stared down at him.

Then something caught Sam's eye. Something hanging from the scarecrow's neck. Something gold. Fear knotted in Sam's stomach as he stepped closer, but he didn't believe what he saw. So he pulled a ladder from where it stood under a tree, set it up in front of the scarecrow, and climbed up. When he stood level with the macabre dummy, he reached with a shaking hand to grasp the pendant the thing wore. A gold mask with horns hanging from a black cord. Identical to the amulet Sam had given Dean a million years ago. Sam looked at the scarecrow's blank hole-eyes with renewed horror. He let the amulet fall from his trembling fingers.

Sam's heart pounded in terror. "Dean?" The name escaped as a rough, horror-filled whisper. At the sound, the scarecrow tilted its head, inclining it as if in a confirming nod. Sam jerked, losing his balance and falling from the ladder, landing flat on his back, staring at the figure looming over him as he gasped for breath—

* * *

Sam's eyes flew open. He was surrounded by shadows. He lay flat on his back, dragging air into his lungs, forcing his eyes to focus through the gloom, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. 

"Dean?" he whispered, not really expecting a reply. He shifted his head on his pillow and through the darkness of the motel room, Sam saw a Dean-sized lump lying in the other bed to his right.

Sam sat up and scrubbed his eyes with his fingertips. As the cobwebs cleared, he remembered. He had not been too late. He had found his brother tied to the tree, along with the girl. He had untied them, and they'd finished the job. Two weeks ago.

The lump in the next bed shifted. Dean was here. In the next bed. Not hanging in an orchard, the victim of a human sacrifice, waiting to accept another. His face wasn't encased in some grotesque mask stitched together from human skin, fetid and rotting and dead.

Sam closed his eyes against the image in his mind, but the specter loomed before him. Sam wouldn't wake Dean up. Not for a bad dream. But light would be good right now. Light to see that Dean was Dean. And if the lamplight happened to awaken his brother . . .

Sam leaned over and clicked on the lamp between the beds. He scrubbed his eyes again, then watched the lump in the next bed stir, listened to the reluctant groan. Short cropped hair and squinting eyes appeared as the blankets fell away. Dean had been sleeping on his stomach, face buried in his pillow, and he groaned again as he shifted to face Sam.

"Dude, what the hell—?" Dean blinked into the bright light. "What time is it?"

Sam checked the clock. "Two-nineteen."

"In the morning?" Dean's voice held a distinct note of irritation.

"Yeah."

Dean eyed Sam before shifting to a more upright position. Not a sitting up "okay, I'm awake, let's get a move on" position, but more of a semi-reclined "okay, I'm awake, you'd better make this damn good" position. As Dean moved, Sam watched the amulet swing on the cord around his brother's neck. The fear that had clutched Sam's heart eased.

When no explanation was forthcoming, Dean's expression changed from sleep deprived annoyance to pissed off frustration. "Well?"

Sam took a breath. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"I'm awake now, dude. Care to clue me in as to _why_ I'm awake at 2:19 in the freakin' morning?"

"It's nothing." Sam reached for the switch at the lamp's base.

Dean's hand shot out and halted Sam's mid-reach. One thing about Dean Winchester: he could go from comatose slumber to "I can kill you with my pinky" in zero seconds flat if he felt it necessary. The look in his eye said that Sam had better start talking or there would be hell to pay.

"It was just a dream, Dean. No big deal."

That got Dean's attention. He released Sam's wrist and shifted in his bed again, his body on the alert, ready to move at a moment's notice. "A bad dream? Like a nightmare?"

Sam shifted his gaze away from his brother's. "Yeah, I guess. Yeah."

"Are we talking run-of-the-mill nightmare or freaky psychic vision nightmare?" Dean half squinted, half quirked an eyebrow in an attempt to conceal the worry Sam could see there.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since the orchard. They'd put the girl—Emily, that was her name—they'd put Emily on a bus. They'd agreed to stick together. His dream was the past. What _could have_ happened. Not what _did_ happen. Not what _will_ happen.

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched. He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. "Just a nightmare, Dean. Nothing to worry about."

"You're sure." Dean's eyes were still wary, his body reluctant to relax.

Sam's eyes darted to the amulet resting against Dean's chest. Then he studied his brother's face. He took in the rumpled hair, the smooth skin, the stubbly shadow growing along his jaw. He looked Dean in his clear green eyes. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Dean seemed to consider the honesty of Sam's words. He did not stop Sam when he reached for the lamp switch. Sam settled himself back under his covers. After several moments, he heard Dean do the same, but he did not hear the steady, even breathing of a man falling asleep.

"Go to sleep, dude."

"Hey, you're the one who woke me up. Bitch."

Sam took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Dean was here, and Sam wasn't planning on splitting up again any time soon.

"Jerk."

Dean was here. Right now, nothing else mattered.

_finis_


End file.
